flying solo

Stick with me on this.

I'm a pilot, and my plane is full of exceptionally valuable cargo -- recently adopted puppies or hand-altered wedding dresses or something. My job is to get them to their destination on time.

Problem is, nobody told me where to go or when to be there.

That's where my ground crew comes in. I've got one friend in the tower, keeping me from crashing into other planes. Another's on the headset, keeping me awake by telling me endlessly tangential stories. A third has made me an awesome mix to listen to while I fly. My friends in a couple have made me tuna salad for the trip. My family has given me the genetics I need to fly (good eyesight, fierce concentration, etc.) and have put me through flight school. They're even waiting at the destination to help me unload the puppies and dresses, whenever I get there.

For years I flew with a string of co-pilots. Men I brought onboard thinking I needed them keep me awake, or to make us sandwiches when we got hungry. I kept them all around so long that I began to believe that they were actually the pilot. That they knew where the hell we were going and how to get there.

But now? Now I know it's my plane. I'm driving, dammit, and we'll get there when we get there. I've got the skills and the support and enough time to figure out what I don't know. I've got other people in my life to keep me awake, give me snacks and who'll look at the map and tell me I'm in Fiji when I thought I was in Dallas.

If a fellow pilot came along, I'm pretty sure I'd let him board, but I'd have to see some ID and a boarding pass before letting them through security.

let this be a warning to you all.

(Author's warning: there are more swears than usual in this post. Please use caution when reading it aloud to your conservative coworkers.)

Last night, I was on my way home from a night with the girls, when I hopped onto an N train which ended up running local. What often happens in this express-going-local situation is that a local N train, when it hits Brooklyn, will inexplicably switch itself back to being an express train, and leave those of us who only needed three more local stops in the cold solitude of the Atlantic/Pacific station.

But not last night! Huzzah! This local train was going local all the way!

I settled back into my seat, ready to just be home and in bed. (It was 12:15, after all)

For the sake of clarity, I've drawn little pictures to show you how I was, and how I wasn't sitting:

How I was:

How I wasn't:

Now that that's clear, watch out, there might be swears.

Before the doors closed and we left the station, a cop came into the doorway near me, and told me to put my feet down. I did, and then he mumbled something about getting off the train. I asked the woman sitting right next to the cop if he had summoned me, and she sort of nodded.

So, bewildered, I got off the train and the cop asked for some ID. I showed and then handed him, my license. I stood in the doorway of the train, because I didn't want this local train to slip away from me -- it would be another 15 minutes before the next one came along.

"Have you ever had a transit summons before?" he asked.

"No."

"Good, good," he said, in a really pretending-to-care-and-yet-being-entirely-condescending tone.

"Can I get back on that train, please?"

"No."

"But it'll be another fifteen minutes before the next one and I want to go home."

"Ma'am, just have a seat on that bench over there."

AND THEN HE PROCEEDED TO WRITE ME A SIXTY DOLLAR TRANSIT TICKET.

Yeah, because I was "obstructing seating." Apparently the twelve other people on my train car all wanted to sit there, but none of them bothered to get up and come anywhere NEAR the seat -- had they done so, I would have moved my feet FROM THE EDGE OF THE SEAT (see above pictures) so they could sit there.

I was so furious I was shaking. Me. Me, of all people. Mrs. Hyper-Conscientious Seat Provider. I hate to ask people to move their bags, so when I see someone coming near me to sit down, (95% of the time) I move my bag before they even ask.

And yet, here I was, in the middle of the night, on an empty fucking train, being written up.

DON'T THEY HAVE SOMETHING BETTER TO DO??!?!?

"The rules have been posted for a long time, now, ma'am."

Thanks, Sherlock.

For your edification, the rules are here, but let me highlight something for you:

• It is a violation to... [p]lace one's foot on the seat of a subway, bus, or platform bench; occupy more than one seat or place bags on an empty seat when doing so would interfere with transit operations or the comfort of other customers.

I was totally interfering with transit operations and the comfort of my fellow passengers. Yeah, you caught me. Good job, guys, you're taking another felon to task!

Seriously, NYPD? I'd say you just increased your level of moron-hood by a factor of at least sixty.

The best part? "You can call this number to contest this, ma'am, and I suggest that you do."
Really? You suggest that, huh? THEN WHY'D YOU WRITE THE FUCKING TICKET IN THE FIRST PLACE??? Oh wait, I know. You have a quota of tickets to write this month and you haven't caught a single actual bad guy yet. Glad I could help with that.

[Note: the number I can call to contest the ticket? Not really useful. All they told me was to come, in person, to their offices at 505 Fulton Street in Brooklyn. Anybody free at 8 am?]

weekend addition

In no particular order:

1. There are 1,844,982,097 calories in a small nation. I ate two this weekend. (Belize and Luxembourg) I'm still pretty full.

b. I didn't lose at paddle tennis this weekend. (But don't get excited. I didn't win either.) We played what my father called "Canadian Doubles," which I'm sure would offend Canadian Paddle Tennis Players Everywhere. Basically you play as a single vs. a doubles team until you lose, and then the next person rotates into the single's position. Needless to say, I severly katiecapped my brother-in-law and/or my father, depending on who I was playing with.

iii. Three-quarter sleeves are waaaay colder than full-length sleeves. I can't figure out why this is true. I have a hunch it's weather-related, though.

I'm almost tempted to buy wrist warmers. But I don't think they actually make them.

FOUR: I think every commuter should be required to fill out the following statement, have it notarized, and return it to me with a small check or dollar bill.

"I, ___[insert name]____, agree that being too smelly on the way to work, either like armpits OR PERFUME (ahem, lady-sitting-next-to-me-this-morning), should be illegal, and if I am found guilty of this crime (ahem, again, l-s-n-t-m-t-m), I should have to get out and walk. Kate should never be forced to commute while breathing through her scarf."

5th: Just (literally, within the minute) overheard:
Co-worker 1: Al Sharpton is an idiot.

Co-worker 2: Yeah.

Co-worker 1: But I guess we need idiots in this world.

My brain: Maybe. But do they have to sit so close to me????

Seis: I recommend watching awards shows with about an hour and a half delay. Then you can fast-forward through all the clapping, boring acceptance speeches, and, best of all, Celine Dion!

VII: Remember when I said that we online-dating-girls talk to each other? Apparently not enough. Thea and I just experienced our very first overlap in boy selection! She told me about a date she went on this weekend, where the guy showed her math flash cards (note: guys? not your sexiest available move) and I asked what he did for a living, and what his online handle was, and it turns out, he's someone I've been corresponding with, too! Part of me is tempted to go out with him, though, just to see if I could handle the math.

On second thought, I'd rather stay home and wash my hair, wearing a three-quarter length sleeve. (I can see how the length would be beneficial in that situation)

possibly only funny to me

Today the ladies' room at work has an oddly oxymoronic odor: wet drywall.
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The other day, I went into my boss' office to water his (elderly) plant. I took one branchy/shooty thing out of the pot, since it had given up and was laying completely horizontal in the pot. As I carried it to the plant graveyard (the kitchen), he asked what I was doing. "It's dead, I'm throwing it out." "It's not dead." he said, "It's resting."
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On the way home from Lisa's house the other night, when it was seriously sub-zero out, I was just minding my own business when a big patch of black ice snuck up behind me and pulled my legs out from underneath me. I fell flat on my ass, and it kind of hurt a little, but it was the kind of fall that Fred Flinstone would have had, legs totally akimbo, and I can only imagine how funny it must have been for the person half a block behind me to watch. Since I didn't smash up the bottle of wine in my backpack, I laughed as I walked home, in a shuffley/skatey kind of way.
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I've been running a lot lately, and to test my endurance (or possibly just to make an ass of myself) I've been trying to sing along with my music, to see how much control I have over the sound. (I read somewhere that Bebe Neuwirth does this when she works out.) Unfortunately, I have more control than I thought I did, since it turns out I've been bellowing bluegrass as I run through the park. dork.
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I got my teeth cleaned the other day, and let's just say that after the tartar was taken out of my mouth, there was room to park a pick up truck. It got me thinking: wouldn't it be great if we lived in a society where tartar had some monetary value? Then you could just pay for your dental work in the tartar they remove!
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Remember when Christina was here recently? Me neither. Here's part of what I said at the time:

The best part about Christina is how she can make me laugh for hours on end, and then when I sit down to recount what was so funny, all I can come up with is the fact that we barked at the Washington Square Park arch by saying "Arch! Archarcharcharch! ARCH!" Oh, and we took pictures of ourselves, first with her mouth closed and mine open, then with my mouth closed and hers open and then finally, with both our mouths sort of open. So, where are the photos? Here, silly:



(photos courtesy of Christina, stupidity courtesy of yours truly)

dear florida, you're kidding, right?

I realize this is not breaking news, but am I the last person to hear that a Florida theatre, doing a charity production of Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues, changed the name on the marquee of the theatre to The Hoohaa Monologues because a passer-by complained about it?

(Not kidding. I wish I were.)

Apparently a woman was driving past with her niece, who, after seeing the marquee, asked her aunt what a vagina was. The woman then called the theatre to complain that she was faced with the question -- I can only imagine how she answered it. ("Well, dear, a vagina is a secret place you never tounch until you meet a man who really loves you, and marries you, and then he puts his love wand there to make babies.") The theatre changed the marquee, but the director told them (thank god) that they only had the rights to the production if no part of it (including the title... duh) was censored.

Even thinking of calling that play the Hoohaa Monologues is a million degrees away from the point the play makes -- that vaginas are not something to be ashamed of.

My hoohaa is appalled. My gynie is angry. My twinkleplace is outraged!

if you want to date me...

Dear Single Boys, Namely Those Who Are Dating Online,

I'm going to let you in on a little secret, and I'm not even going to charge you for it or dress like Dr. Phil when I tell you (although that might be kind of fun). Are you ready? Got your pencil? This is very subtle, complex, and probably hard to understand, so put your thinking caps on:

Sending out form letters to women that you want to meet online REALLY DOESN'T WORK.

Ok, wait, I'll rephrase that. Perhaps it works the first time. But I promise you, if you send That Form Email once, and it works, and you meet or chat on the phone, but then things fizzle out between you two, sending it again is as doomed as the bucktoothed eighth grader at the Sadie Hawkins Dance whose mom is a chaperone. Especially if you tell her that "you have absolutely beautiful eyes."

But why, why would this fail, you ask?

(I'm going to go ahead and assume my subscribers are all bright enough to know the answer, but perhaps you're new here and I don't know you. Hell, you might even be this guy, but I highly doubt it.)

Two reasons. 1) Duh. Because now I know you're a player who can't invest the ten minutes it takes to write me a personalized email, and 2) because sometimes there are two women on the same service who are friends, AND WE DO ACTUALLY TALK TO EACH OTHER. ("Hey, I got an email from him." "Yeah? Me, too. Did it say, 'how are you finding your experience online?'" "YEAH!" Much laughter ensues.)

Now, there's a chance that I've been giving too many guys the benefit of the doubt too long, that all I've gotten is That Form Email (but only once, when it still was fresh and new). I'm not thinking so. There are some bright, witty guys online, and I'm happy to hear from them. Less so from Formy McMailington.

Here endeth the lesson.
You're welcome.

p.s. if you have a Dr. Phil costume, call me!

diana? please call your grandmother!

I get home at around 8 o'clock on Sunday night. The light on my answering machine is blinking! Four messages! Oh rapture! There are four people out there, trying to reach out to me, connect with me. Four hot, single men are each asking me out for different nights of the week! Ed McMahon is calling to tell me I've won the Publisher's Clearing House! (Or someone's trying to give me a credit card with a higher limit. Hell, that would be ok, too.)

But no. It's the same tiny voice on my machine. The one I get over and over and over again. "Dee-Ahnna? Dee-Ahnna? Es abulea. Dee-Ahnna? Llameme. Abuela."

Abuela (grandma) sounds like she's about a thousand years old. She's got this tiny, plaintive voice, and I'm guessing little to no hearing at all. I spoke to her last weekend, telling her in my broken-ass Spanish that "no hay una Diana aqui" (there is no Diana here) and that she had "el numero incorrecto." She apologized (in broken-ass English) and I thought that would be the end of it.

But no.

If you call me, my answering machine ACTUALLY SAYS (in broken Spanish) THAT DIANA DOESN'T LIVE HERE. And yet Abuela calls me like I'm a suicide hotline and she's a teenager on accutane.

Why? I have a few theories.

1. "Diana" is code. "Abuela" is really a drug addict looking for her dealer. If hooking her up would keep her from calling me every day, I'd totally find her some heroin. (Luckily she's a hundred years old, and isn't looking for a fix past seven o'clock.)

2. Diana calls Abuela regularly and then sits at home wondering why, why doesn't grandma ever call her back?

3. Abuela is Satan, tempting me daily over to the dark side.

(The third theory falls apart, though, simply because if she were Satan, she wouldn't have a blocked phone number, so I could call her back and she could speak in tongues to me until my brain was so addled I agreed to be Diana and do her bidding.)

So on the off chance that one of you out there is Diana, PLEASE CALL YOUR THOUSAND YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER AND GIVE HER YOUR REAL NUMBER.

If I could call mine, I totally would.

embarrassing or dumb? you be the judge

So, on a whim the other day, I thought I'd sign up for a yahoo personals account, just to kill more time and see if Mr. Right was out there. Hell, it's free, no skin off my nose, you just type in your information and then they approve it and you're off. I figured it's warmer than going to a bar (especially in this weather) and would give me something to do. (I'm assuming there's a limit to the drivel that can be written in a week. While I'm willing to push the envelope, I don't want anyone to get hurt.)

I tried to come up with something clever (and slightly different from all my other online presence). I submitted it, and waited for approval.

To my great surprise, I was denied.

For the life of me, I can't figure out where my personal contact information is in that. Is it because I mention Grand Central? Am I the only person in New York City who sneezes, blinks or farts? (and everyone has a little GPS receiver that points to my nose, eyes or butt?) No, no, it's because you can email me at brainytrousers@cleverslacks.com. (you can't, actually.)

Now I'm just so embarrased by the fact that I've been denied by Yahoo (of all places!) that I can't go through with posting my profile. I mean, this is the site that once hosted the profile of The Demonic Spawn of Satan (a.k.a, the old office manager of this law firm). If she can get posted and I can't?? I think Yahoo's not the place for me.

The best part of all this? I misread the error message and thought it said I was being denied because, on a dating website, I had revealed "personal information." Wouldn't want to do that now, would we?

pas de vitriol

You're expecting some sort of rant today, aren't you? Your little feindish hearts are all curled up with your computers, waiting for some dark, outlandish venom to come squirting across your screen, scratching that black, black itch inside your sad, lonely soul. Today of all days, I should be bemoaning my solohood.

"Bring it, Kate!" You shout and chant, dancing around your little Kate-altars in long robes and funny headdresses. "Make us laugh whilst we cry unto our beers!"

Sorry. Not today.

You see, this year, I have two valentines (yes, that's right, two), one of whom is married (gasp!) and the other of whom is underage (double gasp!). I'll be spending a cozy and snowy evening, dimly lit and romantic, with a bottle of wine, some sushi, and an episode or two of the Backyardigans. Yup, I'm going to Lisa's house to hang with her and Max. It may not be the sexiest Valentine's Day of ever, but I can't think of better people to spend it with.

Despite the fact that everyone close to me is in a relationship -- everyone, that is, except one friend (who has a profile posted on the same online dating site and averages about 165 emails to my one, which translates to about a 45 to one dating ratio), despite the fact that a guy I had (have?) a crush on is completely oblivious to it, despite the freezing rain that feels like flying shards of glass, despite the backlog of dishes in my sink, that I'll probably never get clean... despite all that, I'm still happy.

I'm my own valentine this year, and as sappy as it sounds, it works for me.

(I'm still available for post-valentine's events, though, so tell all your cute male friends. And could somebody please tell the guy I have a crush on??? Thanks!)

i am cyndi lauper

There's a hole in my heart that goes all the way to china.

But unlike cyndi, I filled mine this weekend with vegetable bean soup.

the end.

balls in the air

Some people can live life with sixteen balls in the air at all times. I admire those people. (Some people can eat 15 and a half feet of sushi. I admire them, too, but for completely different reasons.) I go crazy when I've got as few as three balls in the air, even when the other thirteen are neatly glued to their seats, basking in the glow of my approval.

Being an actor, you learn to live life with some balls in the air (balls! Balls! BALLS! ooh, it just feels so dirty) because you can't plan on when you'll be working and when you won't. So you just learn to be flexible. And after a while (i.e., 8 years), that gets really old.

"Can you come to the beach with us in August?""I don't know, Dad, I'd really like to get a job in summer stock this year.""Ok," he says, sighing. And I die a little more on the inside.

So you'd think that in transitioning out of acting, the balls would all fall from the sky and behave. That's the end goal. To get there, though, you have to throw some really fucking big balls into the air, and then have faith that they'll eventually fall back to Earth. Perhaps you recognize them?

To counteract some of my anxiety, I took an Occupational Assessment Test last night, to find out what a little booklet thought I should do with my life.

It's not good.

Based on my answers, there are SEVEN jobs I should be doing. And they're all really weird, and I wonder what question I answered wrong to get such an odd outcome.

The jobs I'm supposed to enjoy include (and are limited to):

• Police Artist
• Instrumental Musician
• Type Copyist
• Optical-Effects Layout Person
• Singing Messenger
• Licensed Practical Nurse
• Hand Sign Writer

What the booklet doesn't understand is that a) I can't draw, b) I can't play any instruments well enough to count, c) I HATE typing (unless it's my own writing), d) I wear glasses, e) I can't sing, f) I have a terminal fear of vomit, and g) my handwriting stinks!

So I went back and took the test again, with a more moderate view on things -- instead of what do you want to do, I answered with more of a would you be interested in doing this... and it didn't change my answers.

What's completely unfair about this (other than the fact that those jobs are all weird and lame) is that there are other outcomes that offer at least sixty different occupational options. Why couldn't I have had the option of being a:

• gunsmith or
• a shop tailor or
• a weather observer or
• a tractor-trailer-truck driver or
• a barometers calibrator?

How about a:

• dairy scientist or a
• periodontist or a
• hazardous waste management specialist or a
• geodetic surveyor or an
• acupuncturist?

No, no, I'd prefer to be a:

• pullman conductor or a
• bricklayer supervisor or a
• oil-well services superintendent or a
• automobile service station manager or a
• ship mate!

Truly, they seem just about as appropriate.

I know you've heard rumors, but don't worry, they're not true.

We've heard all the rumors. He's sick. He's old. He's in terrible shape. Hell, he's dead. Don't worry, they're not true.

I know. Because I saw Fidel Castro today at the gym.

"Fidel!" I said, hopping onto the elliptical trainer next to him, "I thought you were sick. And dying. And in Cuba."

"No, no," he said, with a thick accent and a funny, dictatorial gleam in his eye, "those are all just hoaxes, concocted to fool you silly Americans."

"So you're fine?" I asked him, starting to break a sweat.

"Would I be here in my little t-shirt and green and black shorts, walking 3.4 miles and hour and wiping my face periodically if I weren't?"

"No, I guess not."

I paused, and took him in. He was, after all, shorter than I was expecting, and bore a strange resemblance to Saddam Hussein.

"But Fidel," I began, "if you're fine, how come you're only going 3.4 miles an hour?"

"Just because I'm not dead, gringa, doesn't mean I'm not eight million years old."

Touché, Fidel, touché.

dirty laundry

Last night I dreamed that I was hanging my laundry to dry with my old next door neighbor, the mother I used to babysit for (who I'm guessing hasn't hung laundry out to dry, um, ever). We were hanging it right next to the "California Highway" and were afraid it might blow away, so we wound it around a bunch of nails in a shack (the "California Highway Shack" I guess). The fat guy with the big hair from Lost was there, eating a picnic in the shack, along with a friend of mine who threw the superbowl party on Sunday night. I kept looking over at this other, non-shack building, right next to the highway, wondering if it was expensive or cheap, because with its proximity to the highway, it was probably really noisy. After deciding it was probably pretty cheap (and looking at it upside down) I realized that it was full of furniture that my parents would have, and I decided it was some fancy club.

And then I woke up.

I blame the crunchy beans in the bean soup.

a smattering of unrelated superbowl thoughts

In no partiucular order:

1. They should have the Superbowl on Saturday so you don't have to get up and go to work the next morning. (I think Mr. Alcohol-is-seeping-from-my-pores, who I could smell from three seats away on the subway this morning would agree).

2. How do the refs get their numbers? The main ref last night was number 99. One of the line judges was 124, I think. And a field judge was 58. I've done some fairly extensive research, which has shown me that you can start with one number and get reassigned to another one, but I'm trying to figure out if there's a desirable referee number to be. I mean, 99 looked pretty good to me, but then again, I know Jacques Merde about sports, so...

3. A bunch of players last night had little pockets where they could keep their hands warm. (In Florida.) A bunch had little towels, tucked into their outfits (kind of like Thea does) for wiping up spills at the bar. Some had pockets and towels. I'm thinking that's overkill. I mean, everything was soaked last night, what's a little pocket going to do for you??

4. Boys who like sports (and aren't too stupid or ugly) are cute.

5. I really wanted them to close the stadium's sunroof last night.

6. If you go to a party, say, and there are two really attractive women, do you prefer them to be dressed in, oh, I don't know know, clothes, or the cotton equivalent of a bathing suit? (Don't worry, I know your answer) And if they're in these cotton bathing suit-esque outfits, do you prefer that they be all intertwined with each other, nine miles of legs wrapped around another nine miles of legs? (Don't worry, I still know your answer) Now, what if one of those women is the host's girlfriend? Does that change anything?

7. Some football players have really big, jiggly, unattractive butts.

8. Another reason the Superbowl should be on Saturday is this: consider the foods often served with football -- chili, bean dip, spicy chicken... These are probably best processed alone, and not on the subway with hundreds of other commuters.

9. Just imagine how pruney all their toes must have been last night.

10. My cake was very popular at the party. (It was scarcely dressed, after all, and fit right in!)

welcome to my refrigerator!

Welcome to my refrigerator!

The beauty of the internet is that you can pretend to be whoever you want to be, and, if you're a good enough writer, your readers will believe you. Now, I'm not sure I'm that good a writer (at least not about food – you probably all believe I'm an EXPERT in romance, though) so, to prove to you that I've been baking and cooking a lot lately, I'm here to give you a tour of my fridge, complete with recipes!

Tickets will be collected as you approach the fridge. Please keep your hands and feet to yourselves at all times.

Our first stop is the purple arrow. Yes, it looks like a yogurt container. It's not. Well, it is. But it doesn't have yogurt in it. It's full of Meatloaf, made from my mother's recipe. (One of my mother's recipes, rather) (and no, your mother's is not better):

5 pounds turkey (or beef, or a combo of beef and turkey, but I used turkey)

2 onions, chopped

2T olive oil

2t Salt

1t Pepper

1/3 cup Worcestershire sauce

¾ cup chicken stock

1½t tomato paste

1½ cups bread crumbs

3 large eggs

Sautee onions, olive oil, salt and pepper together about 15 minutes or until soft. Let cool.
Combine Worcestershire sauce, chicken stock, tomato paste, bread crumbs and eggs in a large bowl. Add turkey. Squash together wit your hands until fully mixed.

Put into two meatloaf pans. Bake in the over for 1½ hours at 325, with a pan of water in the oven, so they don't dry out.

Feel free to halve the recipe, like I did. Although, if you're going to do that, I recommend actually halving all the ingredients (including the eggs!) instead of just selectively halving them. (oops)
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The next stop is the white arrow: mass quantities of Spinach Pudding from a cookbook I took apart and can no longer remember the name of. (It's on page 446, in case you have it, though).

Yes, it looks like cottage cheese. No, it's not.

2 pounds fresh spinach (I used frozen, it works just fine if you squeeze out all that water!)

½ cup part-skim ricotta cheese (you can use cottage cheese, too, if you prefer)

1 egg

1 egg white

½ fresh bread crumbs (yeah, I used processed)

1 T chopped fresh dill or ¾ t dried

¼ cup chopped green onion (2 medium sized) (or you can just use onion, if you're lazy like me)

1 cup lowfat milk

½ t salt

¼ t pepper

½ cup grated Parmesan cheese

Preheat oven to 375. Coat a 2 quart baking dish with spray. (I use a mini-loaf pan, you could probably make them as cupcakes, too.

Stem and wash spinach. Cook in a pot over high heat until spinach wilts (about 2 minutes). Drain and cool, then squeeze. (or, if you're me, thaw frozen spinach, poke holes in the bag and squeeze mercilessly as spinach juice squirts all over your kitchen)

Chop spinach (already done, if you're using frozen… just saying). Place in medium sized bowl with ricotta, whole egg, egg white, bread crumbs, dill, onion, milk, salt, pepper and ¼ cup Parmesan cheese. Stir well, or use a CUISINART (if you have one. Which I do now. Thanks Turning Thirty!) Pour into whatever baking dish you're using. Sprinkle top with the rest of the cheese.

Bake at 375 for 35 minutes (less if making cupcakes)
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At the pink arrow, we'll find Mashed Cauliflower, learned on New Year's Eve by watching Thea:
Two (or one) heads of cauliflowerButterSaltMilk, half and half or whatever milky goodness you have in the fridge

Steam your cauliflower.
Put it in the Cuisinart with butter, salt and whatever milk you want
Blend it to a nice, whipped mashed potato consistency.
Eat to your heart's content, but realize that it might not make you smell all that good. I'm just saying.

This is a "candid" picture of me cooking the cauliflower so a) you believe that I really did all this and b) you can see how LOVELY I look in my Sunday-morning apron! (and it's "candid" because I had to put the camera in the open freezer door and use the auto-timer to get this very casual picture of myself)
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The blue arrow gives us Tofu "muffins" (for those of you who would like more protein in your diet, but can't really be bothered to touch raw dead animals.)

Two packages of tofu (smoother is better, but you can do one of smooth and one of firm, if you want)
Three egg whites

Splenda to taste (for me, that's a lot)

Cinnamon, Ginger and Cloves to taste

Open tofu and drain. Remove all excess moisture.
Mix together (preferably with an electric mixer) all ingredients. If your mixture is particularly soupy, add a teaspoon of cornstarch.
Spray cupcake pan with oil and scoop mixture into individual "muffins." Bake for about 45-50 minutes, to get rid of extra moisture.
Cool and serve. Mostly to yourself. They're useful, but not the tastiest thing I've ever made. That said, I dig them.
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Other highlights? The red arrow leads you to bean soup that tastes pretty good, but for which I didn't cook the beans long enough, so it's a little crunchy. Not something I look for in a bean soup.

You'll notice there's no recipe for it. Probably better to skip it anyway.

The brown arrow points to the most disgusting thing in my fridge – milk that's been there since August. "Kate, that's appalling! Get rid of it!" I hear you gasp. No, I say defiantly! It's buttermilk now, and very good in Kentucky Buttermilk Raisin Cake, from the Cake Mix Doctor Cookbook that I made this morning for a Stupidbowl party later:

Cake:

Vegetable oil spray for misting the pan

Flour for dusting the pan

1 cup golden raisins

½ cup bourbon

1 T grated orange zest

1 package plain yellow cake mix

1 package vanilla instant pudding

1 cup buttermilk

8T (1 stick) butter, melted

4 large eggs

1 t vanilla

Hot Buttered Glaze:

4T (½ stick) butter

½ cup packed brown sugar

¼ cup bourbon

¼ cup water

Preheat oven to 350. Mist Bundt pan with spray and dust with flour.

Put raisins, bourbon and orange zest in saucepan and heat. Don't boil. Set it aside

Place cake mix, pudding mix, buttermilk, melted butter, eggs and vanilla in large mixing bowl. Blend on low for 1 minute. Scrape down the sides and mix on medium for 2 minutes. Fold in the raisin/bourbon mixture and put in pan

Bake until it's golden brown (or your house smells too good to wait any longer!), 45-50 minutes. Cool for 20 minutes.

Prepare the glaze. Put butter, brown sugar and water in small saucepan and boil 3 minutes.
Poke holes in the top of the cake with a skewer. Spoon the glaze over the cake and watch it sink into the holes. Let cake cool completely before slicing.

YUM!

happy groundhog's day!

Here in New York, we like to think of ourselves as mutli-cultural, pan-ethnic, and for the most part, pretty open minded.

As such, we like to rely on weather predictions from a small furry guy named (and I'm not kidding about this) Staten Island Chuck.

This cutie pie lives in the Staten Island Zoo, and apparently predicted an early end to winter this morning, much to the delight of schoolchildren and mayors alike.
Staten Island Chuck is famous, ranking up there with Punxsutawney Phil:

Dunkirk Dave, Shubenacadie Sam

Wiarton Willie, General Beauregard Lee

and Peewee the Woodchuck. (Are female groundhogs unreliable, I wonder? And what's Peewee the Woodchuck doing being a groundhog?)

I'm not 100% sure I believe him (he seems a little camera-happy to me) but I sure wouldn't mind an early spring, especially seeing what we have to look forward to for the next week or so:

According to NY1 (the news channel of choice!), Chuck has only been wrong four times in the last twenty six years. (hell, I've been wrong four times in the last twenty six minutes) And apparently, all the groundhogs have predicted an early spring this year. Conspiracy? Or are the groundhogs really just pawns in a more deliberate, da Vinci Code type affair?

Inquiring minds want to know... but can't really be bothered to find out.

my landlord's girlfriend

When I handed him my rent check, my landlord told me he had to kick his girlfriend out this morning.

"Twenty five years I've been with her! But she's getting old, and my wife wouldn't have her anymore."

His wife (who is usually only partially clad and damp -- I somehow manage, month after month, to hand her my rent check when she's just out of the shower. odd.) is very vocal, and I can only imagine what kind of shreiking a discovery of that magnatude would cause.

Having not heard it, I had to wonder.

Luckily, it doesn't take me anywhere near as long to write a check as it does to earn the funds backing it, and I was out the door in mere minutes.

Only to find my landlord's girlfriend:

She is beautiful. I would be sad to part with her as well.